Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

A Letter to Our Son on His 5th Birthday

My beloved son,

How is that you have been with us for half a decade? Or one whole hand, as you put it.

If I close my eyes, I can see that snuggly baby version of you (“Cheeks,” as your dad nicknamed you—for good reason). But when I tried to lift you up the other day, I was shocked by how solid you are. When was the last time I held you? I wondered. After having you in my arms for five years, that “last” went by without fanfare, without warning.

Yesterday you were talking about how some of your friends stay at preschool in the afternoon, and I asked if you wanted to do that too.

“Mom, you’d be too sad,” you said solemnly. “What would you do if I was gone all day?”

I smiled at your tender oblivion to my to-do list, but all at once my smile got caught somewhere in my esophagus. Because in the fall you will be gone all day. I might be more productive, but indeed, I’ll be a little sad too. I’ve been here before, standing at the cusp of kindergarten, and I know how this goes. Once you start “real school,” it’s like going from the bunny hill to the black diamond: straight down from here. While you’re zipping ahead, I’ll be behind you, snowplowing the whole way.

I love the person you’re becoming—the deep questions and silly ideas and bursts of empathy that bubble up from inside you. I wouldn’t trade in any of this big kid stuff. But I do miss the way your pudgy baby fingers used to squish my cheeks and the way you called your brother by a special tongue click (and later “Dam-dam”) and how you looked at us with an impish grin before jumping from any number of inadvisable heights.

***

You came home from school one day last week and matter-of-factly informed me that one of your best friends said she didn’t want to be friends with you anymore.

“How did that make you feel?” I asked, trying to be all neutral and Dr. Becky about it, despite the thundering of my own heart.

You flashed me that dimpled grin, shrugged, and said, “Oh, she didn’t mean it, Mom. We should invite her to my birthday party.”

***

You are growing up, is what I’m trying to say. And that makes me proud and happy and misty-eyed all at once. No, I’m not trying to rewind time, but I do kind of wonder where it all went.

I do know, though.

In these past five years, we went down slides at the park. We read books. We held hands. We pretended to be dogs. We sang silly songs in the car. We ate pancakes and drank hot chocolate brimming with marshmallows. We rode our bikes and applied hundreds of Band-Aids. We said bedtime prayers. We made up nonsense rhymes and spun far-fetched tales about lions. You told Dad and me “I love you” dozens of times a day. You turned somersaults in the living room and jumped off the couch and built forts and Lego creations and played with your brother.

You became yourself. You are still becoming yourself.

And we are so grateful God picked us to be in the front row, cheering you on.

We love you, our five-year-old.

Mom and Dad

A Letter to My Son on His 6th Birthday

Dear Graham,

This summer we went on a family vacation to the Sleeping Bear Dunes—that veritable mountain range of sand. We squinted our eyes against the electric-blue sky, taking in the towering hills above us. Can we make it to the top? I wondered. It would be a steep enough climb even if we weren’t schlepping water bottles, snacks, and diapers, not to mention two small humans.

Your dad and I listened studiously as the park ranger went over safety guidelines with our group. He told us how sometimes people start the climb but aren’t able to finish, and what to do if you get tired or hot or stuck somewhere between the base and the summit.

We were nodding along, taking in all the tips, when in a surge of panic, I realized you were gone. We scanned the parking lot for your trademark green ball cap. Where could you be? Then I spotted you climbing—no, sprinting—up the dune. Somehow, in the span of minutes, you’d made it two-thirds of the way up, all by your barefooted self.

I tried to call out to you, but the lump in my throat silenced me—a lump that was one part pride, one part fear, and one part I’m not ready yet.

***

You started kindergarten last week. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—five comes after four, six comes after five, kindergarten comes after preschool. These are linear steps, predictable chronologies. And yet I find myself standing at the bottom of this sand dune, looking up at you with a mixture of pride and fear and I’m-not-ready-yet.

When you were a baby, I heard so many times that the days are long and the years are short. I tried to soak in this advice, but I don’t know if it’s possible to be prepared for the inevitable time-slip of watching you grow up. I am no likelier to freeze-frame you at this stage than I am to preserve a dandelion puff or capture a sunset in my pocket.

You are adamant that I am Mom now, not Mama or Mommy. It’s strange how quickly you are changing while I stay the same. I look at pictures of us together, how you once fit in my arms and how your arms now wrap all the way around me. I remain the same height while you keep inching higher.

As soon as your dad and I think we’ve found a rhythm in a new season with you and your brother, things change. Your brain is growing, your heart is growing, and your soul is growing. Your questions are getting bigger along with your shoe size, and the problems you’re up against are increasing in complexity along with your math problems. And I find myself ever a step behind, racing to catch up.

But maybe I’m growing too, just less obviously than you. At the very least, my rib cage must be expanding, because how else could my heart contain all this without bursting?

And so, as you turn six and climb the mountains God has put before you, know that your dad and I love you. And when you face mountains that you have to climb all on your own, know that Jesus is with you, running to the top beside you.

We’ll be cheering you on, whether we’re ready or not.

Love,
Mom and Dad